Chương 15 - THE COLD TRAIL AT FORT CARSON
By 0800 hours the following morning, the high desert sun was once again baking the firing lines at Fort Carson.
Grant Holloway stood inside the Range Master’s office in Building 101. The office smelled of stale coffee, floor wax, and gun oil. Behind a metal desk sat Master Sergeant Robert Reyes, a twenty-five-year veteran with a thick gray mustache and a chest full of ribbons.
On the desk between them lay three official Army Administrative Inquiry forms, stamped with red REJECTED markers across the top.
"I can't process these, Holloway," Reyes said, tossing his pen onto the desk and leaning back in his swivel chair. "The Range Command rejected them an hour ago. Security clearance level insufficient."
Grant leaned his hands on the edge of the desk, bending down until he was eye-to-eye with the older sergeant.
"Sergeant Reyes, a civilian contractor stepped onto an active military range without registering her rifle, fired a shot at a target three thousand five hundred yards away on classified terrain, and left in an unmarked federal vehicle," Grant said, his voice quiet, intense, and controlled. "That is a major breach of range safety protocols. I have a right as the event lead to know who authorized that entry."
Reyes looked at Grant for a long moment, then reached out and flipped the three forms over so the blank white backs were facing up.
"Let me tell you something, Holloway," Reyes said, his voice dropping into a low rumble. "At 0600 this morning, two men in plain gray suits walked into this office. They didn't show me badges. They didn't give me names. They brought a hard drive, wiped every single frame of digital video recorded on Range 4 over the last forty-eight hours, and handed me a written order signed by the Under Secretary of Defense."
Grant went rigid. "What did the order say?"
"It said that between the hours of 1200 and 1600 yesterday, Range 4 was closed for scheduled maintenance," Reyes said, looking Grant directly in the eyes. "It said that no civilian or military personnel were present on Lane 14. And it said that any officer or enlisted person who claims otherwise is to be immediately referred for a psychiatric evaluation and background security review."
Grant stared at the Range Master, his breath catching in his throat.
"They erased her," Grant whispered.
"She was never here, Holloway," Reyes said firmly. "And if you have any common sense left in that head of yours, you'll pick up your gear, load your truck, and go back to your unit in Georgia. You won the competition. Your trophy is in the office safe if you want to take it home."
"I threw the trophy in the dumpster," Grant said flatly.
Reyes didn't flinch. "Then go buy yourself a new one at a trophy shop in town. Because as far as the Department of the Army is concerned, you're the best long-range shooter in the Western Hemisphere. Now get out of my office."
Grant stood in the doorway of Building 101 for three minutes, looking out at the range. The wind flags were snapping again. A squad of young infantrymen were laying prone on Lane 1, practicing their basic three-hundred-meter qualification shots, their rifles popping in small, rhythmic bursts.
They looked happy. They looked confident. They were playing the game, hitting the green pop-up targets, celebrating each hit with high-fives and light banter.
Grant looked down at his right hand. The fingers were trembling slightly.
He walked out to his truck, unlocked the door, and threw his flight jacket onto the passenger seat. On the console sat his cell phone. It was ringing.
The caller ID displayed his father’s name.
Grant answered it. "Dad?"
"Grant," his father's voice came through the speaker, calm, heavy, and unusually serious. "I just got off the phone with your cousin Brandon in California."
Grant paused, his hand on the steering wheel. "Brandon? I haven't talked to Brandon in five years. What does he want?"
"He told me to tell you one thing, Grant," his father said quietly. "He said: 'Tell Grant that the shadow on the canyon wall isn't a target. It's a wall. Tell him to stop shooting at it before it falls on him.'"
Grant froze, the cold desert wind whipping through his hair as he stood beside his truck in the parking lot.
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"What does that mean, Dad?" Grant whispered.
"I don't know, son," his father replied. "But Brandon sounded scared. And Brandon Owens hasn't been scared of anything since we were kids."
